A Letter from Boss Mongo’s Daughter

This post speaks to the great community we're building here at Ricochet. "Boss Mongo" was a beloved member from 2012 until his unexpected passing in July of 2021. We loved the Boss. And still do. We welcome his daughter and hope she'll stick around. - Ed.

Hello to all. I want to start off with an apology. I am sorry it has taken me so long to get on to this site which my father frequently discussed and cared for. You guys knew him as his pen name, Boss Mongo, but I called him Dad (sometimes Colonel when I was in some deep sh**.)

Now that I have read through his posts and comments, even after he passed, I realized how powerful his impact was. You and I respected and looked up to the same man. He was Boss Mongo through and through. I feel like I should preface with I am the eldest daughter of Boss Mongo- the muse behind the story of the “The Nanny”- which was in fact, inspired by true events as my time as a high profile Nanny. I remember Dad was writing that story and called to ask what a popular brand name for the types of leggings I would be wearing. I can’t help but laugh now because off the top of my head (and to make it relevant to his readers) I said “Lulu Lemon”. I’d never owned a pair in my life and had my father looked up the very overpriced *toight* pants that women all over the world sport, he would have lectured me about using my brain and swapping for a knock off on Amazon. Might have even offered to send me some for a better bargain. The story is so authentic, it gave me chills reading it. I am kicking myself for not reading it sooner to tell him, “Way to go Dad.” The details he typed reflected the stories he told. For example, the emerald earrings he had given me after a long deployment, were so special to me as a little girl. I wish now I could switch them on and get a response from him because, Lord knows, I need it.

My father was the kinda guy that shared his Ricochet posts with us weekly, but spoke daily of the community, the conversations, and the shared posts that made him oh, so proud. He would constantly e-mail out “Made it to the main feed, give this post a read!”

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

I wished I’d had paid more attention to my dad’s articles and stories within Ricochet. I was always “too busy” to give them a read. In all honestly, it was me not prioritizing his writing. It's also known as me being lazy by not reading what he had to say or fearing that he would challenge me to a conversation on a topic I was not confident in.

Hindsight is 20/20, but I’m sort of glad I waited to go back and read my father’s posts. He had so much brilliant insights. Boss man wrote about unexpected death and living in the moment years before we unexpectedly and tragically lost him. I will be honest, I clicked around and saw the podcast he did with @ToryWarWriter and Don Tillman and was in tears. Obviously because of his moving words (ahem..). But mostly because, I miss his insight. I miss listening to him talk.

Time is, in fact, the only thing that has made his death a tad easier. I am getting married next year which is so crazy and also very exciting to me. Everyday, I fight a small internal battle I knowing he won’t be able to walk me down the aisle. But Dad always said, "With adversity comes opportunity." My fiancée is a kind and patient man who loved my Dad. Some days I catch him bringing Dad up more than I do because he misses him so much. A man he probably should have feared, he loved and honored.

Whoever said grief comes in waves, is in fact, full of it. As a surfer, I can handle waves. I love the challenge of a swell, from a distance I can see it, take a deep breath, and paddle my ass off to ride. I can embrace it. A wave can knock me on my ass, but I know what I'm getting myself into. For me, grief brews and waits, like an infected wound. Some days it lays so dormant, one minute I’m all fine ‘n’ dandy. Fast forward eighteen minutes later, I am sitting in the lobby of an auto shop and a Creed song comes on that reminds me of Boss. Or I get a quick whiff of some guy’s Copenhagen, and next thing I know, I am uncontrollably sobbing. I’m talking red, splotchy face, snot out of both nostrils, is-this-chick-alright?-type crying. Grief hits like a brick wall in times I least expect and am most certainly not prepared for. But hey, I consider myself a glass-half-full kinda gal. The brief mental breakdown in the lobby happened to get me a free oil change that day. That’s how I know the man I called Dad, you knew as Boss Mongo, is with me. Or that mechanic really did NOT want to deal with me sobbing then telling me the amount due for services rendered.

I’ve lived an extremely fortunate life. I had never experienced a loss as significant as losing Boss Mongo. It turned my entire world upside down. At the ripe age of twenty-seven, I thought I would have him around for much, much longer. But please know. This is not a poor, pity me kind of post. My goal with this is to write an official thank you. Thank you to Ricochet and its loyal members for keeping my Dad alive with his posts and podcast appearances and memories.

I have about 1/6^th of his writing talent and embarrassingly little to no knowledge of foreign and domestic policy so bear with me, please. My goal from this post is to keep his spirit alive. His love for reading and writing, politics, jiu-jitsu, language, and family. I could hear his voice reading his posts, which was extremely special to me. I’ll try my hardest to keep it going, even though it’s difficult at times.

Because as the late Boss Mongo once said, “Suck it up, cupcake. This ain’t no princess farm.”